Libelle Hall
by George deValier
Summary: Modern AU. When Roderich Edelstein – student, musician, and reluctant activist – attempts to save a local music hall from destruction, he is not prepared for the conflicting emotions evoked in him by arrogant demolition worker Gilbert Beilschmidt. Gift fic for Kay the Beta.
1. Chapter 1

_This fic was written as a gift for my amazing beta and wonderful __friend, Kay (who loves PruAus, and agrees with me that there should be more of it! She does, however, prefer angst, so I must apologise for this fluff I've produced instead…) I did intend it as a birthday gift, but I sort of missed that deadline – so instead, it's a thank you gift. Thank you so much for all you do for me, darling, whether that is fixing my grammar mistakes or letting me know a draft needs more work or simply reading my sometimes rambling messages. You're truly amazing, and I can never thank you enough for being so wonderfully kind and helpful. ^_^_

_This fic is set in a little modern AU of mine. I call it the Mapleverse, because, well, it's set in Canada. :-D Anyone who has read my fics 'La Patisserie de la Rose' or 'Of Ponies and Edelweiss' will be familiar with this version of Gilbert and Roderich. This is the story of how they met, as mentioned in 'La Patisserie de la Rose' Chapter Four:_

Matthew raised an eyebrow. A demolition worker and a composer... "So one creates for a living, and one destroys."

"How very poetic, darling!" Francis smiled brightly, sending Matthew's heart soaring. "That describes how they met, actually. Gilbert was in charge of a project to destroy an old heritage concert hall in town; Roderich was in charge of a campaign to save it. I am sure you can imagine, they did not get along very well when first meeting."

* * *

_The titles are a mixture of both German and traditional Italian musical terms._

* * *

**LIBELLE HALL  
**An Unexpected Love Story in Three Movements

.

_Pairing: Gilbert Beilschmidt/Roderich Edelstein (Prussia/Austria)_

_Summary: Modern AU. When Roderich Edelstein – student, musician, and reluctant activist – attempts to save a local music hall from destruction, he is not prepared for the conflicting emotions evoked in him by arrogant demolition worker Gilbert Beilschmidt. Gift fic for Kay the Beta._

* * *

**PART ONE  
****Allegro con Wütend**

**.**

Roderich had never been in a more uncomfortable situation in his life. The street around him swarmed with a mass of unwashed strangers, most of them fellow university students. Some held up placards and shouted slogans; others pushed angrily against the waist-high, orange construction barrier that stretched across the stairs to the concert hall. A group of destruction workers milled around behind the blockade, checking clipboards and smoking cigarettes and throwing dark, dirty looks at the clamouring protesters. Roderich was just trying his best not to touch anyone. He was fairly sure the man beside him had never taken a bath in his life. He turned desperately to Elizaveta.

"Well, this… this is not exactly what I expected."

Elizaveta's features twisted in sympathy. She had a red bandana around her head, a roll of barbed wire around her wrist, and carried a sign that read, 'SAVE LIBELLE HALL!' She really did get carried away sometimes. "Come on Roderich, you organised this. It's a protest, what _did_ you expect?"

Roderich put a hand to his chest, trying to shrink into himself. Yes, he had organised a campaign to save the hall, but this sort of wild demonstration went _far _beyond his expectations. "I _expected_ that we would go downtown and have a strong word with the mayor. I mean, what is going on here? Who are these people? Good Lord, Elizaveta, I think there's something living in that woman's hair!"

Elizaveta laughed and pushed Roderich's shoulder. He discreetly dusted the cashmere – it was _filthy_ out here. "They're here for the same reason as us. To prevent the hall from being destroyed."

Roderich wished that were true. However, as he glanced around at the screaming masses, their dreadlocks and feathers and hideously overgrown facial hair, he had to wonder… "It looks like they simply want an excuse to protest."

Elizaveta shrugged dismissively. "Well, who cares? The more vocal support the better."

Roderich took a very deep breath to try and calm himself. He was never very good in crowds, so he tried to focus on the reason he was here in the first place. Perhaps Elizaveta was right. Regardless of their reasons, the more people who showed their anger at the planned destruction of Libelle Hall, the better the chance of government actually listening to them and taking action to save it. And they had to save it. Roderich could not even contemplate the alternative.

Just as the crowd around Roderich grew louder and pushier, the group of workers parted, and a man strode up to the orange barrier. He drew the attention of the protestors immediately. Perhaps it was his platinum white hair, or his obnoxious grin. Maybe it was the way his eyes blazed into the mob, or the way he sauntered up to the furious crowd without an apparent care in the world. Or maybe it was the bright pink pony emblazoned on his hard hat. Whatever the reason, the entire pushing, yelling, thronging mass turned their immediate attention to the young demolition worker. He gave a small wave in response.

"Afternoon, hippies!"

Roderich waited for someone to react. No one did. Then suddenly, forcefully, Elizaveta pushed him from behind. "Go, go!"

Roderich stumbled forward, taken by surprise, and steadied himself at the last second on the edge of the orange barrier. His heart leapt to his throat. He looked up, slowly, into the most astonishing crimson eyes he had ever seen. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. What was he supposed to say? The demolition worker regarded him amusedly. "Well, _you_ don't look like a hippy."

Roderich fumbled desperately for a response. "I am a musician."

"A musician?" The worker snorted with derision, his upper lip curled in a sarcastic smirk. "Here to sing your songs of protest?"

Roderich drew himself upright and dusted off his sleeves. How embarrassingly undignified... "I am here to prevent an injustice."

The worker's startling red eyes flicked past Roderich in disregard. "And I'm here to do a job. I'm gonna need you hippies to clear out of here before…"

"You should listen to me first," Roderich interrupted. He had little chance of getting through to an ignorant labourer like this, but still, he had to try.

The man turned his gaze slowly, deliberately, back to Roderich. "Should I?"

Roderich faltered, his breath catching unexpectedly in his throat. He adjusted his glasses, stood taller, and pressed on. "Yes. I know far more about this issue than you, and I'm telling you, you should hear what I have to say."

The worker leisurely folded his arms. Roderich couldn't help noticing that one well-defined bicep was patterned with an intricate black tattoo. "You're _telling_ me?" The man's voice was mockingly enunciated; he was either threatening Roderich or making fun of him. Either way, Roderich's neck burned and his pulse began to quicken. The other workers laughed as they looked on; the protestors grew louder by the second.

Roderich forced himself to concentrate. He had to raise his voice, though he doubted it would matter in the end. "This hall dates back to the early nineteenth century. It is one of the finest examples of Georgian architecture in the city, and it houses a pipe organ built by the great Cavaillé-Coll himself. Can you not understand the importance of such a building, and what it represents?"

"Sure I can," said the man slowly, grinning in blatant sarcasm. "This building's really important. It represents a rather substantial pay check."

Roderich made a noise of disgust and shook his head. The ignorance was maddening; but what more could he expect from someone so uneducated?

"Look, I'm here to work," the worker continued, sneering contemptuously. "Something I doubt you've done a day of in your life."

"Excuse me?" Roderich felt his fists clench, utterly infuriated. No one had _ever_ spoken to him in such a way. "I am attempting to be civil here. There is no reason to be an offensive bully."

"And there's no reason to be a demanding, stuck-up little shit."

Roderich took a deep breath through gritted teeth. "I am simply trying to enlighten you. You are obviously unable to see the cultural value of a place like this. If you did…"

"Christ, don't you understand, kid?" The worker took a firm step forward. Roderich immediately stepped backwards. "I don't fucking care about this hall's culture, its architecture, or its fucking pipe organ. What I care about, is knocking this block of bricks down, and getting paid for it. And legally, I can't do that with you lot standing here in the path of falling bricks – as much as I might like to. So, what's it gonna take to get you idiots to clear off?"

Roderich let out a heavy breath of disbelief, rage flooding his veins. Though a small fearful concern tugged at the corner of his mind, he was certain he had never felt such indignant fury as he did right now. He was almost shaking with it. "I won't let you knock it down."

"Let me?" The man's blazing eyes darkened, his expression blatantly hostile. He looked Roderich up and down scornfully. He took another step closer, almost leaning across the barrier, but this time Roderich forced himself to hold his ground. "You hardly look in a position to _let_ me do anything, princess."

Roderich felt suddenly trapped by that intimidating gaze. The man stared down at him, mocking him silently, his shoulders squared and his arms folded and he really was _very_ well-built and Roderich's head was spinning and no, he had no power to _let _this brute do anything… Roderich froze in horrified shock. He was turned on. Taking a swift step backwards, Roderich bit his cheek as hard as he could. He had to say something, he had… "I…" …absolutely no idea.

Thankfully the crowd behind him began shouting, again pushing forward. Roderich was simply struck silent with disgusted astonishment. What was _wrong _with him?! Elizaveta appeared beside him, yelling up at the destruction worker.

"It's fools like you that let the establishment get away with his sort of crap!"

The worker just peered down at her, insolent and superior. He really was quite tall… "You _will_ be moved out of here. No one gives a shit about your little protest."

Elizaveta actually growled, her eyes wild with rage. "Do you realise how pathetic you are? You're nothing but a mindless puppet!"

The worker scoffed, gave a dismissive wave, and turned his back. Oh, damn, he had nice shoulders. "Move it along, hippy. Go save a whale."

"Hey!" Elizaveta shouted furiously as he walked away, his shoulders wide and his back powerful and his… "Get back here, puppet! I'm not done with you! I _said_…"

Roderich grabbed Elizaveta's arm and pulled her quickly through the shouting, swarming crowd. "We have to go."

.

"What a… I can't… I'm just…" Roderich paced his dorm room, fists clenching and unclenching, stomach whirling with anger and frustration. "I'm so… What a simply _horrid_ person!"

"Breathe, sweetie." Elizaveta sat on Roderich's bed, leaning against the wall and flipping through some pretentious art magazine. She'd gotten over her afternoon bout of activism and now seemed quite content to let Roderich carry on his little tirade on his own. This suited him just fine.

"I mean, how _dare_ he? He obviously understands _nothing_ of culture. He obviously has _no_ idea that there is more to life than simply going to work every day and getting your pay check once a week. He is obviously the most uncultured cretin I have _ever_ had the displeasure to come across."

Elizaveta probably wasn't even listening. Not that Roderich minded. He simply had to say this aloud, had to try and make sense of it. Not to say that he wasn't grateful to have Elizaveta there. He never found it easy to make friends, and he was glad to have one at this enormous, lonely university. Even if it had taken a disastrous and misguided attempt at dating to get to the friendship stage.

"He even had a pony on his hat. The most ridiculous thing I've ever seen! And did you notice the way he…"

Elizaveta interrupted. "It is a little worrying that you keep talking about him."

Actually, Roderich was also a little worried by that. Yes, he was furious about the hall being destroyed. He was furious about that brutish demolition worker's arrogance and intolerable rudeness. But what Roderich was _really_ furious about was that he found the brutish demolition worker really, really attractive. He absolutely detested him, and he'd never been so turned on by a stranger in his life. Roderich paused in his pacing and stared at his reflection in his dresser mirror. He felt disgusted with himself. "I'm just…" Roderich searched for an explanation to give Elizaveta. "I'm just angry about those slaves of the system taking property from the common man and, er, and propping up the elite…" Roderich faltered as he tried to remember the lines the unwashed protestors had been spouting.

Elizaveta looked completely unimpressed. "I love how you say that with a straight face while wearing a shirt worth more than my car."

Roderich waved a hand vaguely. He refused to admit he had no idea what he was talking about. "It's the principle of the thing."

"Oh, bullshit, you just don't want your precious music hall to be torn down."

Roderich spun around angrily. "And so what? Why can't I protest the wanton destruction of important public architecture? Because my parents set me up a trust fund? Because I wear silk instead of hemp? Because I wash my hair regularly?"

"That's it." Elizaveta threw the magazine down on the bed, stood straight, and placed a hand on her hip. She fixed Roderich with her best 'Do-as-I-say-now' stare. Roderich leant away warily. "Roderich, I love you, but I am not sitting here listening to your pitiful whining and twisted politics all evening. We're going out."

Roderich closed his eyes and groaned. He knew where this was going. "Please, Elizaveta, if you're planning to use me to get into that vulgar gay bar again…"

But Elizaveta was already waist-deep in Roderich's well-stocked wardrobe. "You know it, sweetie. Now, where are those fabulously tight purple pants I bought you…"

"No, Elizave… I mean it, I'm warning y… NOO!"

.

"Goddamn hippies!" Gilbert slammed his empty glass onto the bar. It was the ninth time he'd said it all evening, but he hadn't yet managed to come up with a more scathing insult.

Antonio leant over the pile of empty glasses and gestured for another round. "It _is_ a beautiful building. I can understand why they are upset to see it torn down."

Francis gave the bartender a soft wink as he placed the drinks before them. "Yes, I agree completely. I mean, it has that fabulous _fin de siècle _decor, the marvellous chandeliers…"

Antonio finished bluntly, "…the charming little coatroom where you used to blow the valets."

Francis sighed wistfully. "Memories."

Gilbert glared at his friends, though he could barely make them out through the dark red lighting. The music was loud, fast, and entirely electronic, so of course the flashy Frenchman and the simple Spaniard were completely at home in it. This inner-city bar had been their usual after-work hangout for years, but it had only recently started to become… well… 'trendy.' Gilbert _hated_ 'trendy.' "I knew you'd be on the hippies' side. You arty types are all the same. Some of us have to work for a living, not just prance around in tights or cook cupcakes." Gilbert sneered over his beer. "Holy shit, you two are so gay."

"Really, darling," said Francis wearily. "_Must_ you continue these regular fits of denial? It grows tedious."

Antonio giggled and waved a hand over his sangria, his green eyes bright with too much alcohol. "He can't help it, it runs in the family. Did you see Inspector Aldrich Beilschmidt was in the papers _again_ after he…"

"They can't prove anything," Gilbert interrupted with a forceful fist on the bar.

Francis gasped dramatically, his own eyes lighting up as he leant forward. "Oh, I know, and Ludwig is _still_ insisting he and Feli are 'just friends.'"

Gilbert gritted his teeth. It was one thing to make fun of him - it was another to pick on his little brother. Only he was allowed to do that. "Ludwig is in high school. Did _you_ come out in high school?"

Antonio snorted. "Francis came out in the womb."

Francis shrugged superiorly. "I see no reason to hide. Ludwig is quite old enough to accept his nature and deal with it. As are you, Gil."

Gilbert would usually be hugely irritated by his friends' gossip mode, but his thoughts kept flying back to his afternoon at work. Why did people even _care_ about that stupid music hall? It wasn't like there weren't any others. It was just a building, for Christ's sake. Gilbert took a swig of beer, then remembered to respond to Francis' ridiculous insinuation. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Hey, Francis, hey," said Antonio, twisting on his barstool and fidgeting with his straw, "Ludwig and Feli are the same age, aren't they?"

"Yes," said Francis slowly, his eyes narrowing.

"Oh, right, okay." Antonio feigned nonchalance. "What's that, fifteen?"

Francis answered warily. "Yes."

"Ah. That would, uh, that would make..."

Francis snapped. "That would make Lovino still jailbait."

Gilbert downed the rest of his beer and again slammed the empty glass on the bar. "Goddamn hippies."

Antonio turned red. "That's not what I mean, Francis!"

"How dare they?" spat Gilbert. "Thinking they can tell me what to do."

"Come off it, Antonio, you're as subtle as a punch in the face."

"All dreads and banners and save the world and shit." Gilbert paused. But then, there was that _one_ guy - the musician, the student, who looked more like a prince than a protestor. The one who'd stood up to him. Gilbert couldn't stop himself wondering aloud. "Except for him."

At those words, Antonio and Francis fell silent immediately, their bickering forgotten. They both turned intrigued looks on Gilbert. "Him?"

"Yeah," Gilbert continued, willfully oblivious. "Prissy little thing, thought he was better than me. A goddamned teenager wearing a cravat. Who the hell wears a cravat?"

Francis raised an eyebrow perceptively. "Sounds like your type, Gil."

Gilbert ignored him. "Musician, apparently. What kind of job is a musician? It's almost as stupid as a baker or a dance instructor."

Antonio blinked blankly, then turned to Francis curiously. "Do you know why we still hang around him?"

Francis just took a sip of wine. "I ask myself every day."

"He called me an offensive bully. Me! A bully!"

"Imagine that," said Francis flatly.

Gilbert glared at the wall, fuming internally. "Who even _speaks_ like that? What was his problem? Who the _hell_ wears a cravat?!"

"_His_ problem?" Antonio scoffed. "_You're _the one who can't stop talking about him."

Well, that was a point. Gilbert quickly tried to rationalise it. "He's what's wrong with the world these days, people expecting shit for nothing, think they can tell everyone what to do, oh Jesus Christ there he is."

"What?" Francis and Antonio swung around on their barstools, glancing around the room wildly. "Where?"

The musician stood at the end of the bar, clutching a beer like his life depended on it, looking about as out of place as Gilbert felt. He wore a different suit from the one he'd worn this afternoon – the purple pants were interesting - but his cravat remained the same. Gilbert was immediately stunned… and almost as quickly, furious. "What the hell is he doing here? How dare he? This is _my_ stupid trendy gay bar! No hippies allowed!"

Antonio gripped Gilbert's elbow, his eyes wide. "Hang on, do you mean the guy in the glasses?"

Gilbert nodded. Francis' mouth dropped open and he placed a dramatic hand to his chest. "_Mon Dieu,_ Gil."

Antonio shook his head, amazed. "He's... he's gorgeous!"

Francis nodded breathlessly. "That is quite possibly the most beautiful man I have ever seen."

"He's _pretty_," spat Gilbert contemptuously. "Men shouldn't be _pretty._ It's not natural."

Francis and Antonio rolled their eyes at each other. "Gil," said Antonio skeptically, "You're telling me you're not interested in him? At all?"

Interested? Gilbert regarded the musician: staring around with wide, fluttering eyes, attempting to hide his unease with a haughty exterior… Gilbert felt his back burn and his stomach leap. He quickly scoffed with derision. "I'd rather hook up with Francis."

Francis tossed his long blond hair. "Of course you would, darling."

"Good. Cover me, I'm going in." Antonio took a few steps in the musician's direction before hurrying back and muttering quietly. "How old is he?"

Gilbert could only glare. Antonio did worry him, sometimes. "Legal."

Antonio breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay, good."

Francis laid a ten dollar note on the bar, watching shrewdly as Antonio approached the musician. "Five minutes."

Gil laid a note to match. "Two."

Two minutes later, Antonio was back. Gilbert tucked both notes into his front pocket. "Well?"

Antonio reached meekly for his sangria. "Small tip: _Austrian _is not the same as _Australian. _I _may_ have offended him by asking where he parked his kangaroo."

"He's Austrian?" God, that would explain everything. Though Gilbert hadn't noticed an accent earlier…

"Apparently." Antonio pointed at Gilbert with his straw. "He sounds just like you, actually. Only, you know… posher."

"Amateur." Francis rubbed his hands together, a familiar glint growing in his calculating eyes. "Watch a master at work."

Gilbert's stomach fell. He grabbed Francis by his belt, dragging him back before he could take a step. "Oh no, not you too."

"Hey!" Francis cried indignantly. "You _said_ you weren't interested…"

"I'm not. I'm just..." Gilbert actually found himself strangely bothered by his friend's attempts at seduction. The Austrian was _his_ pretty hippy. Not that Gilbert wanted anything to do with him, of course, but damn it, he'd seen him first. "I'm just... For Christ's sake, I'm gonna see what the hell's going on. I bet he's stalking me…"

Gilbert pressed his way through the sweaty masses, charging towards the musician. The Austrian took a moment to notice him, though when he did, his skin whitened and his lips parted as though in a gasp. Gilbert felt a wave of satisfaction at the student's obvious shock. He leant on the bar, grinned widely, and spoke in German. "What is a boy like you doing in a place like this?"

The musician only looked stunned for a moment, before clenching his jaw and replying in the same language. "German. I should have known."

"Prussian, actually."

"You are not Prussian."

Gilbert straightened up. "I totally am!"

The musician sighed witheringly. "No, you are not. Prussia has not existed for over sixty years."

Gilbert was quite annoyed at that. He lifted his chin and replied, "Prussia exists in the hearts of all who believe in it."

The Austrian's bright eyes narrowed behind his glasses. In the street earlier Gilbert had not noticed what a remarkable shade of violet they were. "That's what you believe in? Prussia? A totalitarian, fanatical, militaristic model of fascism?"

Gilbert didn't know whether to laugh in amusement or growl with rage. Ignorant little fool. "Of course you'd think that, little Mozart. And I bet you think Beethoven was Austrian and Hitler was German."

The musician almost flinched, as though he were personally affronted. "How dare you. Beethoven _was_ Austrian."

"What?!" Gilbert almost spluttered in indignation. "He was German! He was born in Bonn!"

"And he lived most of his life in Vienna," the musician shot back.

Gilbert couldn't believe someone could be so obtuse. "So, you're Austrian, yeah?"

"Yes." The musician replied combatively, though his hand tugged nervously at his sleeve.

"And you moved to Canada when?"

The musician blinked slowly, his lips set in a hard line. "I am Austrian-Canadian," he replied finally.

Gilbert smirked smugly. Ha, he'd won that round. "Well, then let us agree that Beethoven was German-Austrian."

The musician breathed deeply through his nose, his eyes fixed on the wall and his knuckles white as he clutched his beer. "I'll agree to nothing. What do you want?"

Gilbert paused for a moment. What _did_ he want? Gilbert shook the uncertainty away and justified it to himself. Hell, he was bored, and he wanted to irritate the little Austrian as much as the Austrian irritated him. Gilbert motioned for another beer, ignoring the fact that was the lamest justification ever. "Can't a guy get a drink and some conversation?"

"Conversation?" The musician repeated incredulously. He turned to face the bar, attempting to block Gilbert with his shoulder. "I have nothing to say to you."

Gilbert leant back on his elbows against the bar. "You had plenty to say this afternoon."

The Austrian took a sip of beer. He kept his focus turned from Gilbert, though his cheeks were the most intriguing shade of pink. "And you refused to listen."

Gilbert put his hand to his ear in an exaggerated gesture. "I couldn't hear you over the grating sound of your blaring self-righteousness, little Mozart."

The musician interrupted tersely. "My name is Roderich Edelstein. Flattering though it is to be referred to by the name of Vienna's finest composer."

"Hang on, wasn't that Beethoven?" For the briefest second, the Austrian almost looked amused. Gilbert reached for his own beer and took a swig. His throat was parched from having to practically yell to be heard over the pounding bass. "Speaking of Beethoven, is this electronic crap what passes for music these days?"

"I know," the Austrian replied automatically. "This sounds like something they'd play on the elevator to hell."

Gilbert looked at the musician. The musician looked back. Their eyes connected for a fraction of a second. "So tell me… _Roderich…_ What is it about that stupid hall? Why do you care so much?"

And just as quickly, Roderich's expression turned furious. "As though someone like you could possibly understand."

Gilbert felt a curious stab in his gut that might have been anger. He refused to consider he might be offended. "Someone like me? What the hell do you know about me?"

Roderich stood taller and glared at Gilbert with a sort of pompous loathing. "I know that all you care about is your next pay check."

Gilbert let out a grunt of mirthless laughter. So the musician _had_ been listening this afternoon, after all. "Some of us _have_ to care, princess. Some of us don't have silk cravats and trust funds and Prada glasses."

Roderich adjusted his glasses uncertainly. "You know these are Prada?"

Gilbert shot a quick glance through the crowd where Francis and Antonio stood watching avidly. He shrugged in explanation. "I have a very homosexual group of friends."

When he turned back, Gilbert noticed Roderich catch someone's eye and shake his head slightly. Gilbert followed his gaze – ah, the hippy girl who'd been protesting with him this afternoon. She stood a few metres away, her arms folded, watching vigilantly. Gilbert gave her a wave. "Your beard? Or your guard dog?"

Roderich frowned, his expression turning quickly guarded. "My friend."

Gilbert arched an eyebrow. Now, this sounded intriguing. "Friend?"

"Y- yes." The Austrian faltered for the first time. He drew his hands closer to his chest, his eyes blinking faster as his breathing quickened. "She's… well, she's the one who's…"

Gilbert nodded knowingly. "Dyke, huh?"

"Excuse me, that is terribly rude…" Though Roderich sounded more anxious than affronted.

Gilbert couldn't help enjoying the way his words affected Roderich so strongly. He leant closer, lowering his voice and ignoring how much harder _this_ was to justify. "You didn't actually answer my question earlier. What _is_ a boy like you doing in a place like this?"

Roderich froze. The blood seemed to drain from his face, turning his cheeks white. Damn, this pretty Austrian reacted so _intensely..._ "I don't know what you mean."

Gilbert inclined his head, a tiny smirk pulling at his lips. "Don't you?"

Roderich swallowed heavily. His eyes really were sort of stunning when they blinked like that. "Elizaveta - my friend – she brought me here. I don't... I wouldn't actually come to a place like this myself, I..."

Oh, Gilbert _had_ to see how far he could push… "So, you're telling me you don't share Elizaveta's devious inclinations?"

"What? I... yes… I mean, no!" Roderich seemed to be trying not to panic.

Gilbert snorted in amusement. And his friends thought _he_ was in denial. "Please, you're so obvious."

That snapped Roderich from his apparent daze. He placed one hand on his hip, slammed the other on the bar, and furrowed his face angrily. "I _beg_ your pardon?"

"Oh, do you? I like that." Gilbert placed his hand deliberately on the bar, directly beside the Austrian's arm, so close he could feel the heat from his skin. He leant closer and whispered into Roderich's ear. "You _beg_ so well."

Gilbert did not expect Roderich's reaction. He jolted back like he'd been burnt, his hand flying to his mouth. His cheeks were red; his eyes wild. Gilbert paused, then felt a slow smile spread across his face. His breath turned thick in his lungs; his heated blood fired through his veins. Oh, now _this… _this was impossible to justify, but damn was it interesting...

Unfortunately, Gilbert didn't get to see just how interesting it could get. A tawny-haired girl suddenly pressed between them, pushed Gilbert on the chest, and growled, "Back off. Now."

Gilbert almost growled in frustration. Great – the guard dog. "Down, puppy."

"Down?" The girl tilted her head, laughing scathingly, though Gilbert could tell by her stance she was deadly serious. "Don't think I won't take _you_ down, puppet. Right here, right now."

"Don't think I won't fight back, little girl." Gilbert's shoulders twitched and he stared down aggressively. "And I'm an _expert_ hair puller."

"Oh, so am I!" grinned the girl, her fists clenched and violence in her blazing green eyes. "And I don't mean the hair on your head."

Before Gilbert could reply, Francis and Antonio promptly appeared to grab his arms and drag him away.

"Gilbert, darling, you know it is improper to start a fight with a lady…"

Gilbert groaned and struggled half-heartedly against their grip. "Come off it, Francis, I wasn't going to hit the Austrian. Ohh, you mean _her. _It's okay, that's no lady, that's a lesbian."

Roderich placed a hand on the girl's shoulder, though he kept his eyes turned downwards. The girl looked furiously reluctant to let Gilbert get away. She shouted angrily. "Oh, you're lucky your friends are here, little man."

The club-goers around the bar turned to watch the commotion. Gilbert laughed wildly. He liked this girl - he hadn't been this entertained in months. He shouted back as he was steered insistently towards the exit. "Let's reschedule, shall we?"

The girl raised her hands challengingly. "Any time you want your ass kicked, puppet. Any time."

"Gilbert, can we go _one_ evening without dragging you from a fight?" asked Antonio wearily.

"Forget about that, _mon ami._ What _did_ you say to that gorgeous Austrian to get him blushing like that? I want every word."

Even as he was dragged from the bar, Gilbert couldn't help looking at Roderich for his reaction. The musician still looked anxious, still looked angry. But maybe, just maybe, there was a slight hint of something else.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

_For Kay._

* * *

**PART TWO  
****Verlöschend con Adagio**

Roderich could not move. Dozens more protestors stood outside the hall today, angrier and louder than previous demonstrations, shouting deafening words he could not make out. Roderich folded his arms to his chest, trying to make himself smaller as the crowd crushed in around him. The atmosphere was heavy and frantic; the workers behind the barrier kept their distance. The slogans the crowd shouted were not even about the hall anymore, but about the people, and the establishment, and other vague terms Roderich did not understand. It seemed, to them, this really was just an excuse to riot.

But to Roderich, this was more than an excuse. It was more than a political platform. This hall was important, yes; it had cultural value, certainly – but more than anything, this hall held an important part of Roderich's memory, and an intimate part of his heart. If he lost this, when this was all he had left to remember…

But Roderich could not think of that now. "Elizaveta, I think we should…" Roderich trailed into anxious silence when he realised Elizaveta was no longer beside him. He turned around frantically, scanning the crowd, but she was nowhere to be seen. The cold anxiety in his gut began to build. And Roderich realised, with a sick stab of fear, that he was trapped. He couldn't get out. A small group rushed the barrier, and that was it. The entire crowd rushed forward, a swarming tide that Roderich was helpless to fight against. He tried to back out, but the mob was like a brick wall behind him. He was pushed one way, then the other, then he stumbled and fell heavily to his knees. He could not get up. He could not breathe. Roderich's head turned light as one mad thought flashed bright and sharp through the rushing noise: he was going to die here.

The hand came from nowhere. Roderich felt it grip his arm, felt it pull him upwards and drag him through the crowd. Light and colour and noise swam around him; it all went so fast, and everything faded but that firm grip on his arm. It wasn't until he stood on the street curb, breathing the open air, that Roderich saw who had pulled him from the mob. His chest leapt and his jaw dropped. "You!"

The German narrowed his eyes and dusted off his hands. "You're welcome." He was dressed in his work uniform, complete with bright orange vest and pony-emblazoned hard hat. He also sent Roderich's already struggling emotions into overdrive.

Roderich's heart pounded furiously, and it wasn't from fear anymore. Despite his spinning head and his constricted lungs, Roderich could only remember the feel of this man's lips against his ear the night before. He quickly shook the unwelcome memory away. "Where did you…"

"What were you doing in there?" the German interrupted forcefully.

Roderich broke off at the words. Was this man actually… _concerned?_ But that was ridiculous! "I've already told you why I'm here," Roderich managed to choke out. "To protect this hall…"

"Austrian, none of them are here for that reason." The German sounded exasperated, his expression plainly frustrated as he pointed at the protestors. "Look at them. They're just waiting for the riot police to turn up. They don't give a damn about this place."

Roderich looked at the mob shaking the barrier. "No." He lowered his eyes, all other emotions drowned by a sudden, crushing sadness. "It seems I am the only one who does."

Silence fell between them for a moment. Roderich's heart jumped when the German said his name. "Roderich..."

But he got no further, interrupted by wailing sirens and squealing tires. A fleet of police cars tore down the street, coming to a screeching halt beside the protestors. The first car door swung open and an officer with long, white hair emerged swiftly, a radio transmitter in his hand.

"Shit." The German turned his back, pulled his hard hat down, and glanced sideways at Roderich. Those red eyes blazed into him. "Get out of here, Austrian."

Roderich watched breathlessly as the demolition worker stalked away, as the officers surrounded the crowd, as too many thoughts raced through his head. Where was Elizaveta? What would happen to the hall now? And why on earth did he feel this way about that obnoxious German?

.

"He rescued you."

Roderich adjusted his glasses and took a deep breath through his nose. They'd already been through this about fifteen times. Now that the afternoon's nastiness was behind them, and he and Elizaveta sat safe and well on his bed in his dorm room, the whole situation seemed – well – quite ridiculous. Elizaveta's insistence on returning to the matter of the German demolition worker was, to say the least, frustrating.

"No," Roderich explained calmly. "He just took my arm, and… pulled me out of the crowd."

"Oh, Roderich." Elizaveta leant forward eagerly, a pillow clutched dramatically to her chest, her green eyes wide and shining. "He _rescued_ you!"

"No, as I said, he…"

But Elizaveta wasn't listening. "He's your knight in shining armour!" she breathed, placing the back of her hand sarcastically to her forehead.

Roderich gritted his teeth. Elizaveta was enjoying this far too much. "Knight in a hard hat, maybe. But seriously…"

"Oh, oh Roderich," Elizaveta gasped, practically jumping on the bed. "Imagine if you fainted, and he had to give you mouth to mouth…"

A far too confusing beat skipped in Roderich's chest. Now, that was too far. He pointed a finger firmly. "No, stop! We don't like him, remember? You almost physically attacked the man."

Elizaveta gave a small nod of acknowledgment. "Would've smashed the bugger too, if his friends hadn't been there."

"Exactly. He is an arrogant, misogynistic, homophobic…"

"Oh, he's an arrogant bastard, I'll give you that. Misogynistic, without a doubt. But homophobic?" Elizaveta tilted her head, her gaze far too perceptive. "He _was_ in a gay bar, darling."

Roderich ignored that insinuation. "I'm quite certain he was only there in order to ridicule me. The man detests me, that much is _plainly_ evident."

Elizaveta's eyes sparkled playfully. "But he _did_ rescue you, fair Roderich!"

Roderich shook his head, exasperated. "You really need to stop now. I am not as delicate as you imagine, you know."

Elizaveta looked irritatingly doubtful of that. "But Roderich, darling…" She stifled a giggle. "You just got _rescued_ by a _tradesman._"

That was _quite_ enough. "I need to think." Roderich jumped from the bed and marched from the room, ignoring Elizaveta's laughing apology behind him.

.

Some people, when they need to think, listen to music. Others need silence. Roderich went grocery shopping. Somehow, after navigating the aisles and negotiating between seven different types of cheese, Roderich always had a clearer sense of the world. Today, though, his usual tactic did not seem to be working.

It wasn't like he actually liked the obnoxious German. Actually, that was a big part of the problem. He didn't like him at all, and yet whenever he thought of him… those red eyes, that deep voice, those wide shoulders… the way he'd dragged Roderich from that crowd so easily; the way he'd teased at the bar… _"You beg so well…"_

Roderich took a deep breath and steered his shopping cart into the cereal aisle. Best not to think too much on _that_ right now. Despite the fact that he made Roderich's heart race, his skin flush, and his lungs burn, the German also infuriated him. He was arrogant, he was vulgar, he was… walking down the aisle towards him. Roderich froze, just as the German noticed him.

The German looked delighted as he caught Roderich's eye. He came to a grinning halt beside him, holding a full shopping basket, and rested his arm on Roderich's shopping cart handle. "All right, admit it. You're stalking me, aren't you?"

Roderich almost choked, his cheeks burning hot. "Excuse me?!"

"Why else do you keep showing up everywhere I go?"

"I…" Roderich panicked. "This is my local grocery store, how can I be expected to keep track of where you…"

The German shook his head, laughing. "Settle down, kid, it's called teasing. You're not very good at taking it, are you? Of course…" He leant closer and winked slowly. "I could teach you that."

It took Roderich a moment to decipher what the man meant. When he did, his breath caught with fury, shock… and something else. He could only turn his wide eyes away and push his cart swiftly down the aisle.

"Hey, wait."

Roderich had no idea why he stopped.

"You all right?" The German almost sounded apologetic.

Roderich felt his forehead furrow, his palms sweaty on the cart handle. He turned back in confusion.

The German looked slightly uncertain. He scratched the back of his neck before asking, "After yesterday. You all right?"

Roderich was lost in this conversation. Once again, he had to wonder - did this brute actually _care?_ And why did everyone assume he was so darned breakable, anyway? He composed himself enough to answer. "I am perfectly fine."

"You're perfectly _lucky _you weren't crushed. You really need to learn some common crowd sense. You don't go to many music festivals, do you?"

Roderich straightened his shoulders, affronted. "I attend the Salzburg Classical Festival every year."

The German snorted. "My name's Gil."

Oh, Roderich was _so_ lost. He blinked widely and adjusted his glasses. "Gil?"

"For God's s…" The German rolled his eyes. "Gilbert Beilschmidt."

Why was this man giving Roderich his name? He obviously hated him. But Roderich was nothing if not dignified. "Well. Pleased to meet you, properly, Gilbert. I believe I have already given you my name."

"Indeed. Roderich Edelstein, the student musician who likes to protest." Gilbert peered overtly into Roderich's shopping cart. "And is fond of cheese, apparently."

Roderich narrowed his eyes. Gilbert's basket contained a lot of beer, a lot of sausages, and not a lot of anything else. "Is it Oktoberfest already?" he asked flatly.

Gilbert grinned at that. "It's always Oktoberfest at Chez Beilschmidt."

Roderich was not impressed. "Oh? A party house?"

"Oh, yeah," Gilbert grinned, raised his chin, and pointed with some ridiculous gesture. "Twenty-four hour, baby."

And then Roderich had an unexpected reaction. He laughed. As soon as he did, he silently panicked, and again turned away. This German demolition worker already had him madly infuriated, hopelessly confused, and disturbingly aroused. He could not make him laugh, also. The feeling did not last long, however, as Gilbert's tone abruptly changed.

"We'll be knocking your hall down tomorrow. The cops are barricading the street."

The words were like a punch to the gut. Roderich actually gasped, his hand flying to his stomach. It took him a few moments to fully process what he had heard. When he did, he closed his eyes tightly. He should have expected this. He should have expected it, but all he felt was sick with pain. So Gilbert did not care after all – he just wanted to gloat.

"I am sorry."

Roderich ignored him. Sorry? What did that mean? What did _any_ of this mean? This man was going to knock Libelle Hall down himself. Roderich was too hurt to feel confused. He was too confused to feel hurt. He did not even know. He just nodded slowly and walked towards the exit in a daze, leaving his cart behind him. He felt Gilbert's eyes on his back the entire way.

.

Yesterday, Gilbert was convinced Roderich was a pompous little fool. Today, Gilbert realised that Roderich was still a pompous little fool, but he was also sort of fascinating and really, _really_ attractive, and damn it all why could Gilbert not stop thinking about him? He needed to forget these confusing, conflicting, and just damned insane emotions. Gilbert didn't _do_ emotions. Hell, he was gonna do his best to forget, and he may as well be the best grandson ever and grace his family with his presence as he did it.

"_Ja?"_

"Hey, Opa!" Gilbert shouted cheerfully into the phone. "What are you up to? Besides breaking up student riots, of course, rough day, huh? But enough of that…" He looked down at his grocery shopping spread across his kitchen counter. "Because I've got a carton of Köstritzer Black, about fifty sausages, and this, like, Colosseum-sized pack of pretzels, and…"

"Not now, Gilbert," said Aldrich impatiently. "Your brother and I are going out."

Gilbert deflated slightly, but continued, "Okay, cool, where? I'll come."

"We're just going to dinner, Gilbert, you won't be interested."

"Where are you going?" Gilbert asked warily.

Aldrich took too long to answer. "Casa Vargas."

Gilbert groaned and flopped forward onto the counter. "Shit, Opa, I've told you like ninety times, old man Vargas is straight. The guy has eight hundred grandchildren."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You need to be more careful, man. You were in the papers again. Even Antonio knows about it, and he doesn't know who the Prime Minister is."

"Here, speak to your brother."

"What, hey, wait..."

"Gilbert."

Gilbert narrowed his eyes when his brother spoke. "Ludwig. Casa Vargas, huh?"

"I like Italian food," said Ludwig flatly.

"Bullshit. How's Feli?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

The line went dead. Gilbert muttered irritably as he tossed the phone down. "Hang up on me, you little shit…"

How goddamn rude. His own family bailing on him in his hour of need. Gilbert scowled at the phone. Screw them; new plan. Probably better to go out and get smashed, anyway.

Gilbert knocked heavily on the carved wooden door to the _Patisserie de la Rose_. Francis must have just closed - the smell of baking bread and chocolate still wafted from inside. After far too long, the door finally opened slightly, and Francis peeked out through the crack. Gilbert held up a six pack of Köstritzer and grinned. "Thirsty?"

"Er…" Francis quickly looked behind then back, his expression impatient. "This is not the best time, _mon ami_…"

Gilbert narrowed his eyes and tried to peer past him. "Why? You got a trick in there? Tell him you'll reschedule, I'm more important."

"Well, they are only in town for one night, you see…"

"They? One night? Why are you wearing a top hat?" Actually, where was that music coming from, and why did the place smell like powder… A peal of laughter filled the air as a cloud of pink feathers floated past. _What the hell? _"Francis, do you have the circus in there or something?"

Francis had the decency to look a little embarrassed. "Only the strongman, the trapeze artist, and the clown."

Gilbert's eyebrows shot up. "What?!"

A loud noise sounded suspiciously like a whip cracking, and a shout rang out. "Roll up, roll up boys!"

Francis bit his lip sheepishly. "The ringmaster _may_ be involved."

"But Francis," Gilbert whined, wringing his hand in a pathetic attempt to invoke sympathy, "I need emotional support! I'm having feelings and stuff!"

"Oh, Gil." Francis looked briefly empathetic, patted Gilbert on the shoulder, and pressed something into his hand. "Have a cupcake." Then he shut the door.

Gilbert stared at the door, stared at the cupcake, fumed silently, then muttered to himself as he marched away. "What the hell? Who does everyone think they are? Better than me? I'm having issues, damn it, I deserve a bit of sympathy… circuses, really, what the… damn, this cupcake is awesome."

A few blocks later, Gilbert stormed into the Carriedo Dance Studio. Surely Antonio would join him on a boozy night out... the Spaniard never had anything else to do. Gilbert threw open the doors, charged into the main dance hall, and marched straight up to Antonio.

"We need to go out," Gilbert stated firmly, Köstritzers still in hand. "You're gonna have to change though, those tights are the stupidest thing I have ever seen."

Antonio blinked vacantly a few times, closed his mouth, and finally narrowed his eyes into an icy glare. "I am working."

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Oh come on man, this isn't a real job."

Antonio took an exasperated breath through his teeth. "Gilbert…"

Gilbert stood his ground. "You're my last hope, man, my family is obsessed with Italians and Francis is currently fucking the entire Cirque du Soleil and I _need_ to go out. I need to get blind drunk. I need to chat up a Swedish tourist, I need to eat a kebab at 3 a.m, and I need someone to make sure I get home with my pants on."

"Um. Gil." Antonio pointed behind Gilbert's shoulder. Gilbert turned slowly to find an entire class of ten year old dance students staring up at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

"Uh." Gilbert waved awkwardly. "Hi kids. Don't do drugs."

A kid with blond hair and massive eyebrows waved back, grinning. "That sounds awfully fun!" he cried in a British accent. "Can I come too?"

Gilbert only paused for a second. "Know a good kebab place?"

"No, but my dad's Swedish."

"Let's roll. Hey!"

Antonio gripped Gilbert by the ear and hauled him towards the door. "Peter, don't encourage him. Gilbert, get out!"

"Bye, kids. Stay in school!"

.

Gilbert lay sprawled on the couch in his messy one-room apartment, flicking through T.V. channels without actually watching anything. The vapid, monotonous drone of the television filled the empty flat. It was a slightly depressing thing to realise that he'd pretty much just approached everyone he knew. Gilbert snorted softly to himself as he remembered his earlier supermarket conversation with the Austrian. "Twenty-four hour, baby," he murmured with a bleak laugh.

With nothing to distract him, Gilbert's head swam with everything he'd spent the afternoon suppressing. He did not know how to control these thoughts; how to understand them. When he'd seen Roderich in that swarming crowd this morning, he had only one instinct: to jump the barrier and pull him to safety. What was _with_ that? And then in the supermarket…

Gilbird flew across the room, settled on Gilbert's knee, and gave a tiny chirp.

"I don't know," Gilbert replied absently. "He's completely pompous, he wears a cravat for Christ's sake, and he seems to have no idea what the hell's going on around him. How has he even managed to survive in the world so far?"

Gilbird answered by pecking Gilbert's knee.

There were too many thoughts in Gilbert's head; there was too much to try and understand. And this silent, cluttered room was not helping in the slightest. Gilbert gently shooed Gilbird off his knee, stumbled off the couch, and retrieved his beer from the fridge.

There was only one place that might clear his conflicted head.

.

Even Chopin's Nocturne no. 20 in C-sharp minor wasn't lifting Roderich's mood. He stared out his window overlooking the college grounds, wishing the late afternoon skies would rain, and listening vacantly to the old recording. "Too fast," he muttered when the piece entered the first crescendo. He sighed and rested his elbows on the windowsill. What was the point? Everything he had worked towards for the last six months, everything he'd done to try and save Libelle Hall – it was all for nothing. No one listened, after all. No one even cared. And why had Gilbert…

"No," Roderich growled emphatically. There was only so much his overworked brain could take. He walked slowly to the dresser and looked sadly at the framed photograph that sat there. A regal old lady, dressed in a gown of blue silk with her white hair in an elegant knot, seated at her shining grand piano. Roderich sighed again, guilty and devastated. "I'm sorry, Aunt Maria."

The sky outside was starting to darken. This old Chopin record wasn't helping. Roderich's fingers ached. He felt empty, and he needed to feel the music in his bones. He thought of his piano in the classroom across campus; he glanced towards his violin in the corner. No, neither of those would be enough. Roderich turned away from the photograph, silenced his record player, and took his coat from its stand.

There was only one place that might soothe his conflicted heart.

* * *

_To be continued…_


End file.
